


warmth is felt through the tips of your fingers

by yuzubalm



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Atmospheric, Author once again goes overboard with their descriptions of the mundane, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Osamu is Suna's home and Suna is Osamu's, Osamu is a good neighbour, Post-Time Skip, Rainy days and people in love, Sunsets, T for the usual swear words and mild suggestive content, Tenderness, Yes Author is going haywire, food as a love language, no beta we die like men, now we have a part 2, you know the drill....copious descriptions of the sky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28958967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuzubalm/pseuds/yuzubalm
Summary: As he keeps walking, the sun sets slowly, the skies still in varying shades of auburn, purple and pink amidst scattered wisps of clouds yet to come together. It’s a gentle type of immaculate; soft on the eyes and not altogether impressive, but if the lampposts and houses and structures of civilization were to fall away, surely the sky would claim the expanse and engulf the world whole.He sticks his phone out, takes a photo, and breathes it all in.Another day, another breath, another beat of the heart.Warmth, told in two parts.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 51
Kudos: 159
Collections: SunaOsa





	1. warmth is felt

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday Rin. You deserve the world.

Onigiri Miya closes every alternate Monday, and early, at five o’clock, on Thursdays and Sundays. Today is a Sunday, and tomorrow, there’s a scheduled stock-take.

At five forty-five in the evening, Miya Osamu collects his keys in his palm with a tiny _clink_ , slipping them into his back pocket. The evening is still fresh, hours left to go until the clock resets and calls it a day, and yet, the horizon is already prepared to tuck itself into its corners and fall asleep. 

_Winter_ , Osamu thinks absentmindedly, as he glances at the sky and notices the white shadow of the crescent moon peeking out from behind his store. The air is chilly, frost on the cusp of formation, and he exhales, breath misting and dissipating, slow and calm. The days are slightly shorter and nights longer these few months, as they always are this season - but gloomy as they may be, Osamu can’t help but feel uplifted, traces of a smile forming against the fabric of his scarf. He has reason to feel okay. The sky, a melody of orange and pink, seems to agree. 

He turns. The wind-chime, ruffled by the winds, chirps a quiet tune, bidding him a safe journey home.

———

Peace was not something which tended to be associated with the Miya household. With the constant bickering and competitions, there was never a quiet moment. Their mother would nag and scold and tend to them, and their father would laugh and lecture and teach them. Atsumu would always be there to say his piece, or accompany Osamu’s thoughts with his very own, verbalised. There was no stillness.

Now, as he walks past his neighbourhood market and gives the shop owners a wave, Osamu understands. Peace is not necessarily still. Peace can also be comfort, derived from quiet understanding and love. The Miya household never lacked love. The Miya household never lacked peace.

Osamu experiences different types of peace: one with his family, a loud, comforting embrace; one in his kitchen, a steady focus; one in the outdoors, as he is, winter’s touch adding serenity to the setting sun; and one more, at home, a quiet warmth waiting. 

He has ingredients at home, so he doesn’t have to pick anything up from the grocery store, but he stops by anyway to chat with the lady at the counter who lights up and tells him about how her son did well at school today. It’s sweet. Osamu leaves with a smile on his face and a pack of Chocobaby in his pocket, because the child had insisted he buy it. 

As he keeps walking, the sun sets slowly, the skies still in varying shades of auburn, purple and pink amidst scattered wisps of clouds yet to come together. It’s a gentle type of immaculate; soft on the eyes and not altogether impressive, but if the lampposts and houses and structures of civilization were to fall away, surely the sky would claim the expanse and engulf the world whole. 

He sticks his phone out, takes a photo, and breathes it all in. 

Another day, another breath, another beat of the heart.

———

Twenty minutes is plenty enough time for him to bask in the sun’s evening glow. The sun in winter is a welcome presence; red-gold, like the inside of a molten onsen egg, radiant in the way ice sits in a cup of tea in the peak of summer, subdued, glistening. The setting sun grows redder, blushing as it withdraws its tendrils and seeks solace over the edge of the earth - the wind is colder, Osamu’s breath is foggier. 

Keys clink as he twists his hand and pushes his door open. “I’m back,” he says aloud, more out of habit than anything, and steps inside, shuffling his shoes off. The door shuts and he heaves a sigh of relief, creeping winds replaced by a mild warmth emanating from the new heater in the center of the house. 

He quickly picks up his shoes and places them next to the pair of chalk-white sneakers at the side, shifting the lot of it to the left as he glances around. The living room is empty, with only the sound of a muted drip coming from outside where their neighbour’s radiator remains unfixed. 

He deposits his keys on the side table, and cranes his neck slightly. A jacket hangs over the chair closest to him; the hook to his left empty, ready for his use. A book lies on the dining table, bookmark haphazardly wedged in the middle, glass of water sitting quarter-full next to it. Osamu huffs a laugh to himself as he rinses the glass and sets it back on the table, sliding a coaster beneath it with practised ease. 

_Quiet_ , he muses, as he shuts off the tap and dries his hands. A quick glance at the clock on the wall tells him it’s six-thirty in the evening. Dinner, perhaps, is pending, but he knows there’s fried rice and leftover hijiki in the fridge that saves him the trouble of cooking today. A post-it on the fridge tells him, further, that there’s fresh miso paste on the shelf, if he wants to use it.

Osamu taps the corner of the sink, and hums. Dinner can wait, if only for a while.

Quiet is a word used to describe him _only_ when compared to Atsumu, because Osamu is by no means quiet: he fights, talks back, makes noise. But, if Osamu is a boom box, perhaps Atsumu is the whole damn sound system who passes him the aux cable every now and then. 

_You two are carved out of the same blood_ , he recalls Kita saying to them once. _But don’t forget that you’re two different people, too._

He feels that, now, coming home to a place he’s carved out on his own. His blood will be his forever, but his home, in the present, is here, on the third street of this suburban neighbourhood, on the eighth floor of this apartment building. It is here, next to a neighbour with a slinky black cat and leaky radiator, in these fifty-seven square meters of space. 

It is here, on this bed, next to the warm body wrapped in his bedsheets, head buried, only the back of his neck exposed, soft, stray strands of hair swept across his nape. 

Rintarou, all one hundred and ninety one centimeters of him, takes up only half the space available, curled away from Osamu, who has plenty of space to settle in and sit down next to him. Osamu wants to brush those loose strands away, or pull the blanket up, but simply watches, mesmerized, at the slow rise and fall of his chest; listens, as Rintarou’s soft, even breathing fills his ears. 

It’s not every day that Osamu can come home to Rintarou, but this month, their schedules align thanks to the EJP Raijin’s dedication to off-season morning practice. The house feels smaller, warmer, _better_.

The seconds pass, and his arm moves to tug at the sheets, revealing an additional sliver of skin where the collar of Rintarou’s shirt hangs loosely around his neck. _Onigiri Miya_ , the tag which hangs out reads, one size too big. _Mine_ , Osamu recognizes in a flash, a mixture of wonder and want burning at his fingertips. 

Impulsively, he leans forward to press a kiss against his exposed neck. 

“Hi,” he whispers against his nape. “I’m home.”

Rintarou stirs, curling as Osamu buries his face into his neck and snakes his arm around his waist. “Welcome back,” he murmurs, voice slightly muffled. “What time…?”

“Six-thirty-three.” He closes his eyes for a moment and presses his forehead against his cheek, feeling the residual warmth of the blanket on his skin.

“Mmmm.” Rintarou’s head shifts, leaning into the touch. “You’re a little late.”

The Chocobaby sits in his pocket cheekily. “Grocery run.”

“Hmmm, is that so.” Rintarou pushes himself up slowly, pulling Osamu along with him as he turns his body to face him, gaze lacking its usual sharpness as it recalibrates in the wake of sleep. “And what did you get?”

He pulls the offending item out of his pocket. “Present for ya?” he asks, teasing.

“Ha.” Rintarou leans forward, bumping his forehead against his, corners of his lips lifting slightly. “Rejected.”

“Aww.” Osamu presses back, grinning. “Fine, I’ll keep it then.”

Rintarou’s fingers trace up his sweater sleeves and tug his body closer. “Suit yourself,” he murmurs, gaze dipping. “Hi.”

“You welcomed me home already,” Osamu replies, but his mind is stuck on the feeling of Rintarou’s fingers on his arms, the faint scent of warm citrus hanging in the space between them, the curve of his lips and the soft light reflected in his eyes. Gleams of the setting sun filter in through the blinds behind Osamu and fall against the side of Rintarou’s cheek, tempting him to reach his arm out in a bid to sweep them away. 

Rintarou blinks slowly, gaze fixed, warm, inviting. “Hi, Samu,” he repeats, softer this time, arms looping around Osamu’s neck as he leans closer and closer until the space between them dissipates into warmth and mingled breaths, into a gentle press and parting of the lips.

“Hi yourself,” Osamu mumbles, feeling the curve of Rintarou’s smile against his lips as he closes his eyes and meets him halfway. One hand comes to rest on his waist while the other cups his jaw, tilting it slightly with a press of a thumb, lips sliding and pressing at an angle that sends a buzz vibrating through his body.

Rintarou’s mouth is warm against his, soft and inviting, and when nudged, he obliges, lips parting as Osamu presses harder, tongue darting out for a taste of what he’s missed. He exhales, tilting further, as Rintarou sighs and melts, arms tightening around his neck, fingers trailing past his nape and into his hair, kneading, pulling gently, and then a little harder, as Osamu nips at his lower lip and slips his hands under his shirt, palms on his skin. He’s warm to the touch, warm like the apartment, the bed, the little space that remains between them as he shifts into Osamu’s lap, bare thigh sliding against his leg as his tongue slides against the corner of his mouth, eliciting a soft whine which goes straight to Osamu’s gut. 

The warmth is intoxicating, filling Osamu’s mind with a buzz as his hands move on autopilot, trailing the expanse that is Rintarou’s torso, many times explored but never finished with. Dimly, he remembers they should probably have dinner first given the time of day, but his right hand dips past the waistband of Rintarou’s shorts and Rintarou moans into his mouth and any coherent thought that isn’t about the complete lack of distance between them flies out of the window.

It’s Rintarou who breaks away first, fingers still twisted into his hair, one leg wrapped around him, cheeks flushed, collar of his t-shirt askew. “Dinner,” he breathes. “We should have dinner.”

“I’m eating,” Osamu replies, mind hazy yet acutely aware of the heat settling in his gut and moistened pink of Rintarou’s lips, the warmth of his hands fusing with the warmth of his body. “Thanks for the meal.”

“ _This_ is not a meal,” Rintarou mutters, head lolling to the side as Osamu slides his mouth down his neck. “You- _ah_ \- you’ll actually be hungry in five minutes and then you- _mm_ \- you’re gonna regret not eating at the proper time- _nnnh_ …”

“Maybe,” Osamu murmurs back, teeth grazing the edge of his collarbone as Rintarou closes his eyes, head thrown back. “But lemme have my appetizer first.”

“God, shut _up_ ,” Rintarou replies, but it comes out soft and garbled as Osamu presses down against his skin and sucks. “ _Ngh, Samu…_ ”

It’s very tempting, Osamu thinks, to ignore Rintarou’s sage advice and press on until both of their clothes are on the floor, especially since Rintarou’s hands are trailing down the base of his neck, grip increasingly hot and urgent. But a small part of his brain jabs him in the stomach, _hard_ , and points out that he hasn’t eaten since eleven-thirty in the morning, and Rin’s completely right, they’ll regret messing up their mealtimes.

With a sigh, Osamu releases Rintarou and wraps his arms around his waist, pulling him into a hug. “Okay,” he says softly, pressing a soft kiss on the back of his neck. “You’re right. Let’s eat.”

Rintarou huffs, breath uneven, but leans into the hug anyway. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, forehead brushing against his shoulder as he nuzzles his face into the crook of his neck. “Samu, I swear...”

“But you love me,” Osamu says, grinning, as he pulls back to glance at him. “You married me.”

Rintarou meets his gaze as his breathing continues to even out, darkness in his eyes slowly fading, mild exasperation on his face rapidly being overshadowed by fondness. 

“I did, didn’t I.” He sighs and shakes his head, but there’s a small smile playing on his lips. “And I do.”

“You do what, now?”

“You’re insufferable.” Rintarou leans forward to flick his forehead with his fingers as Osamu laughs. “Now let’s eat actual dinner before your stomach starts rumbling and I get gastric.”

Outside their window, the sun completes its daily ritual and thins out beyond the horizon with grace. The moon, a pale, radiant sickle, rises to embrace the night sky.

In their dining room, Osamu glances at his husband, still in the same oversized t-shirt, arms crossed as he stares intently at the digital display of their microwave. _Thirty seconds_ and counting, and soon, he’ll stop it before it starts beeping to stir it around, because _if not the rice will be unevenly heated, what, Samu, not everyone eats rice fresh from the cooker all the time like you_ , and _the beeping’s ridiculous, like, yeah, I get it, my food’s hot already, chill, I’ll get there_. 

“Rin.” Osamu sweeps his thumb over his cheek as they stand in front of the microwave. “I love you.”

Rintarous scoffs. “Wait until you try my fried rice, then see if you love me then.”

Tomorrow will be a new day. Tomorrow, at the crack of dawn, he’ll leave for the store to do their monthly stock-take, and Rin will leave to meet Atsumu for inter-team practice at the local gymnasium. Maybe Rin’ll try to make something with that new pack of red miso before Osamu comes back for lunch, if he makes it back before him. The sun will bring with it new ideas and energies that Osamu can’t yet predict.

But he is guaranteed tonight. Tonight, they have the warmth of their apartment. Tonight, they have the warmth of each other. Tonight, tomorrow night, and all the other nights that the universe allows.

“No,” Osamu says, softly. “I’ll still love you.”

Rintarou glances at him, surprised, and as it dawns on him, his expression softens and melts, in the same way today’s sunset had washed over the horizon and filled the sky with a beautiful hope.

“I love you, too.”


	2. love is stored in the grains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Osamu smiles, then, and despite the rain pattering against their window and the thunder rumbling in the distance, the occasional wisps of wind creeping through the bottom of their door or the cracks of their windows, Suna feels warmth and only warmth spread through his entire being._
> 
> Another window into the lives of the Miya-Suna household, from Suna's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was inspired by dear [Ewin](https://twitter.com/14_7psia) to write more soft sunaosa, and so I am here, back, with more soft sunaosa. It felt right to tag this onto Warmth and exist in the same universe, and I didn't want to publish a new fic which didn't quite have a plot. So here, have another snippet of their soft, soft lives.

The weather’s not good today. Coach called it from the start, saying he could “ _smell the rain_ ”. Suna highly doubts that one can smell rain coming hours before it actually pours, but he guesses Coach’s intuition was right, from the looks of the bleak expanse of grey clouds currently hanging over him as he walks home.

 _Nope_ , Suna thinks as he hears thunder rumble in the faint distance and decisively strides past the current block, barely making it across the traffic light before it flashes red again. He can feel the wind against his parka, in his hair, against his cheek; the slight creak in his joints which is telling of an impending storm. 

Suna zips his jacket all the way up as he huffs and paces on. He knows the rain is impatient to begin, but he’s just as impatient to get home, so the rain will have to wait its turn. 

Maybe that’s the beauty of storms like these—it brings him home, fast. Which is why he’s somehow made it back to the apartment at record speed, shoes slotted into the rack, bag tossed into the corner of the living room, clothes in the laundry basket, hand on the edge of the sink as he contemplates his day—

_Huh, hands on sink—_

He blinks, twice, and quickly realises he’s been standing in his bathroom for the past thirty seconds, naked, staring blankly at the wall tiles in between the sink and the shower. 

_Ah._

———

At home, there is stillness. There is comfort. There is this space and time carved out, where there’s nothing else for him to worry about, nothing else to do except to breathe and _be_.

———

Time stretches within these four walls in a way Suna can’t quite discern. It’s the white of the tiles, the lack of a window, the humidity of a shower not yet started, the stiffness of a towel not yet used. The thing is, he knows for a fact that the towel _will_ be soft, and he _will_ feel warm after the shower, but there’s always a certain chill to the first steps he takes from the rug and onto the dry, cool floor. 

He sighs. Procrastination is his greatest enemy.

Within one, two steps, he’s fully rid of the comfort of the bathroom rug, toes pressing hesitantly against the floor as he tweaks the tap. The showerhead quickly stutters alive in front of him and he shudders as licks of cold water spray onto him as collateral, forcing him to take a small step back. Instinctively he spreads his fingers ahead of him to test the stray drops. 

_Cold_ , he thinks, shivering slightly as he tries to ease his entire right hand into the stream, then up to his elbow. It’s as far as he can go for the first push.

He’s used to it, the short wait before a shower actually begins - the apartment is a little old and he supposes it’s due for some maintenance. Or maybe it’s a sign that they should look for a new apartment. 

_A new place, huh._ Suna sticks his arm further up his elbow, where goosebumps have started to form. Where would they stay? Closer to the bay, nearer to the aquarium so that they can use their annual pass more? It’s probably more expensive to live in that area, or maybe not, if he can get Komori to share his sister’s real estate agent’s contact—

A knock on the door startles him out of his thoughts. “Hey, you forgot to turn the water heater on, y’know.”

“Oh.” He twists the tap and the water pressure shuts off with a small squeak. “Right, I missed it.”

Quiet laughter emanates from behind the closed door. “S’ okay, I just switched it on for ya.” Another knock. “Hurry or I’m gonna eat dinner without ya.”

Suna glances at the door. Sighs. Smiles, just slightly, as he turns the shower back on and lets the pitter-patter of water warm up against his skin.

Today is not by any means a bad day; he’s just a little tired. The day has been long and if the dark clouds which tailed him on his way home are any good indication of the incoming weather, the neighbourhood will be in for a stormy night. Good luck to his neighbour’s balcony plants, the poor fellas. 

His own plant will be fine. It’s a panda plant, meant for the indoors, suitable for irresponsible plant owners like himself. He’s forgotten to water it four times already in the past month and it’s somehow still stayed alive which, he’d like to think, is a great testament to his ability to take care of plants.

Perhaps it should go into his non-existent Linkedin profile. _Suna Rintarou, professional volleyball player and semi-decent succulent owner._

 _Semi-decent **beginner** succulent owner_. Perhaps he should qualify the statement.

He huffs to himself as he closes his eyes and leans his head forward under the shower, finally letting the warmth soak in. Less thoughts, more water. 

———

The scent of rain, mixed with that of freshly steamed rice, mixed with that of faint citrus. Something that only exists in this space.

———

Five to eight minutes is all he needs to take a decent shower, but today he takes ten, having decided that he needs that extra two minutes to make up for the first.

The humidity of the bathroom hits differently after a shower–it’s stifling when you go in, comforting when you go out. Rintarou lands on the bathroom rug, one foot after the other, and lets out a sigh as he brings the towel around his shoulders and into his hair with his hands, massaging his scalp lightly. 

The towel _is_ soft. He _does_ feel warm. The t-shirt he’s wearing is one size too big and hangs slightly low over his collarbone, but it’s soft and goes down to his hips so it’s automatically a keeper.

(Alright, maybe he doesn’t really have a say in whether it’s kept or not, seeing as it’s not actually his shirt. But he has dibs on the entire drawer so it’s the same thing.)

“I’m out,” Suna announces, pushing the door open to an empty hallway. “Don’t start without me.” 

He wanders to the living room and plops himself on the sofa, towel slung around his shoulders. Within his line of sight he can make out one, two tupperware boxes on the kitchen counter and three cold dishes plated in identical ceramic bowls, but there’s nobody else in sight. 

He hums, turning to the window pane behind him.

The storm is far more enjoyable in the comfort of home, when he’s curled up on the edge of the sofa in a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, warm and freshly showered. He’s now a mere spectator to the downpour, which is getting nearly heavy enough to lower visibility by half. 

The scent of fresh rain hits him as he pushes the window open by just an inch, fingers grazing lightly against the knob as he moves to press his palm against the glass. Against his hand, the window is cool, and he relaxes, leaning his head onto his own shoulder where his towel still lies.

It’s then that he hears the front door click and open with a slight creak, and he turns around expectantly, eyes trailing the man taking his shoes off at the entrance of the apartment. 

“Sorry, I said I’d start without ya but the rice cooker’s still got ten minutes to go...” Osamu keeps his shoes in the rack and straightens up, meeting his gaze with one eyebrow raised. “Huh? What’s up?”

“Nothing.” He slides the window shut and spins himself forward, arms hugging his knees. “Just watching the rain. Where were you?”

Osamu shrugs as he closes the door. “Had to tell Masahiro-san that his plants were in danger of bein’ flooded, y’know.”

Suna sighs. “You’re such a good neighbour. I really was just gonna sit here and let it be.”

“That’s why we live together.” Osamu shakes his head, smiling as he reaches for the thermal flask sitting on the table and pops the cap open, letting the initial waft of steam trickle out before blowing gently at it. “Gotta let ‘em know we’re equal parts kind, equal parts asshole.”

He huffs. “Rude. I can be nice, too.”

“I know. You’re just lazy.”

“Mean.” Suna flops onto his side, towel splaying onto the cushioned seat as his damp hair follows limply after. “Let’s just get his number so that we can text him next time instead.” 

“We literally live just meters away from his house.”

“What?” He shrugs. “Saves us the walk.”

Osamu sighs, bends across the coffee table, and gives his forehead a gentle flick with his fingers. “Idiot,” he mumbles as he leans back, but he’s smiling at Suna in that soft, quiet way that makes him kind of want to reach out and kiss him. 

Instead, Suna reaches his arms out, grazing the fabric of Osamu’s sweater just as Osamu leans away, grinning. “C’mere,” Rintarou urges, fingers flicking outwards, warmth just slightly out of reach. “Can’t reach you.”

Osamu stands at the edge of the sofa while holding his flask with both hands, the faint cloud of steam obscuring the smile playing on his lips. “Shh. Lemme take a drink first.”

Suna sighs, letting his arms fall as Osamu proceeds to take a long, long sip. “You disappoint me.”

“I’m not even doing anything.” Oh, Osamu knows exactly what he’s doing, standing just a few centimeters out of reach, grinning as he sips his tea, watching Suna pout. “Watch me.”

“Boo. I won’t.” Suna turns instead to the windows again, mildly fascinated by the trails of raindrops forming on the glass pane, while beyond, the storm rages on. He can’t fully make out the buildings in the further distance or the field three streets over, but he can still see the rest of the adjacent block, the young man three floors up desperately packing his unsunned shirts at his balcony, the couple one floor down sharing a new can of coke, and just slightly visible from the corner of his eye, a glimpse of a black cat resting by their neighbour’s windowside.

He hears a soft clink on the coffee table, the rustle of fabric, and a weight next to him as Osamu seats himself next to him, hip bumping against his. “Anything interestin’ to look at?”

“Someone forgot to bring in their laundry,” Suna muses, “and the cat’s back.” 

“Oh? Where?” Osamu curls one arm around Suna as he hoists himself up a little and peers through the window. “Oh, Mimi. I fed her a treat the other day, yanno.”

“You-” Suna glances at him. “Miya Osamu. Stop being such a kind samaritan.”

“Why not?”

“Because then people are gonna think I’m the asshole in the relationship.”

“Are they wrong?” Osamu fully deserves the punch to the shoulder that comes next. “ _Riiiin_.”

“Little do they know, _you’re_ the asshole.” But Suna wraps his arms around Osamu’s waist and sighs as he buries his head into his neck anyway. “Hi,” he mumbles, breathing him in, as though he hadn’t done this yesterday, or the day before, or in the many months they’ve had the privilege of sharing the same space together.

“Hi.” Osamu shifts a little, pressing a light kiss into his hair. “Your nose is cold.”

“Don’t care.” Suna nuzzles further. “You’re warm.”

“I was cooking.”

“I know,” he says, raising his head to meet Osamu’s gaze, and then a little softer, “thank you.”

Osamu hums. “I made ginger pork today ‘cause I got off early. Wanna try it first?”

“Nah...let’s wait for the rice to cook.” Suna absentmindedly threads his fingers underneath Osamu’s sweater, seeking heat in the layer in between that and his t-shirt. “Hey, what do you think about getting a new plant?”

“Another one?” Osamu laughs. “Don’t ya have your hands full with just the one?” 

“Well, I’d like to think I’ve been doing a decent job of keeping him. Didn’t water him all the time and he’s still alive-” Suna trails off as he watches Osamu smile serenely at him. “Wait,” he says slowly, “have you been watering Peanut for me?”

“No.” Osamu’s calm demeanour cracks as he laughs. “Okay, I did, maybe once. Or more than once. The first time, on that day you came home and fell asleep on the couch.”

Suna tilts his head. “I fall asleep here all the time.”

“No, that day—” Osamu raises a hand to brush his fingers against Suna’s jaw. “You were so tired that you didn’t say a word when you came back, took the shortest shower ever, and collapsed onto this couch...ya remember?”

Suna frowns slightly. “I don’t…” Maybe he remembers a little, the day he got lectured for something insignificant and had to do drills for hours on end. He remembers coming home, blacking out, Osamu coaxing him to eat something, and then passing out again in bed. “Was I out of it?”

“You were tired...I don’t remember from what, but maybe your coach gave you a hard time,” Osamu says softly. “But your phone reminder said that you needed to water the plant, so I kind of just did it for you. And then I did it again.”

Suna blinks. “You saw my alert?” It’s a simple one, entered as _WATER PEANUT_ in all caps.

“The reminder?” Osamu laughs a little more as his fingers brush and pinch his cheek lightly. “It shows up on your notifications and your phone was just lying next to ya on the couch. I’m not spyin’ on ya, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No, I’m not...” Suna reaches across to pull Osamu towards him, eyes wide. “‘Samu, you...”

“What?” Osamu almost looks smug. “ _You’re such a good husband, thank you, ‘Samu?_ ” 

“Shut up.” Suna leans forward and closes his eyes as he kisses Osamu with a gentle press to the lips.

“What was that for, huh?” Osamu murmurs as Suna pulls back, one hand supporting the small of Suna’s back.

“I dunno. I missed you. And I’m grateful.” And then they’re kissing again, Suna moving his head as Osamu complies and pulls him in closer, lips parting slightly as one of them (Suna doesn’t really register who) shifts and runs his teeth just lightly over the other’s bottom lip. There is a sigh and a breath and a brush of tongue and the knot in Suna’s gut loosens just a little.

It’s warm, even though the rain is pouring outside and their laundry has no hope of getting dried in the foreseeable day or two. It’s warm, like the heat stored in between Osamu’s layers, stolen by Suna’s hands which trail up and across Osamu’s body; like Osamu’s fingertips, which move up to cup Suna’s face tenderly, soft and fiery even against the warmth of Suna’s own cheeks,. It’s warm, like Suna himself, in his neck and chest and stomach and—

The rice cooker beeps loudly, and they break apart.

“ _Timing_ ,” Osamu groans, throwing his head back. “Timing!” he calls to the general vicinity of the kitchen. The cooker beeps merrily in response.

Suna wipes his mouth with the collar of his t-shirt. “Food,” he says, unable to hide the laughter bubbling up his throat as he meets Osamu’s gaze.

“Food.” The corners of Osamu’s eyes crinkle as he starts to laugh. “This always happens,” he chortles, arms moving back to Suna’s waist. “ _Always-_ ”

“That’s our relationship,” Suna replies, laughing as he pinches the sides of Osamu’s stomach before retracting his hands. “You, me, food-”

“ _Hey_ —”

“Then tell me, who do you love more, me or food?”

Osamu crosses his arms. “...That’s unfair.” 

“Uh huh.” Suna leans forward and kisses him again on the side of his cheek before standing up and taking Osamu’s hand. “Let’s go.”

Osamu sighs, but takes his hand and stands up too, the other hand grabbing his flask from the table. “ _Feed the hunger first, always_ ,” he recites, _“then your mind will be made up on the next step._ That’s from Kita-san.”

Suna hums patiently. 

“I’m sayin’. Food is the staple. Food is the backbone.” Osamu glances at him. “But maybe you need a different kind of nourishment to make life worth livin’. Or you just want someone to enjoy that food with. Does that...make sense?”

Suna stares as they come to a standstill in the middle of their apartment, right next to the dining table, Osamu’s hand still clasped in his, as he realises that this is what it means to love and be loved in this household.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, squeezing his hand. “It does.”

Osamu smiles, then, and despite the rain pattering against their window and the thunder rumbling in the distance, the occasional wisps of wind creeping through the bottom of their door or the cracks of their windows, Suna feels warmth and only warmth spread through his entire being.

“Thank you for the food,” he says.

 _I love you_ , he means.

Osamu smiles wider, because he understands.

“Let’s eat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this and then realised it was White Day today, so let this also be my White Day contribution. <3 Thanks for reading, come vibe with me on twitter at [yuzubalm also](https://twitter.com/yuzubalm) and find out for yourself _exactly_ how whipped I am for sunaosa

**Author's Note:**

> Fleeting thought: _my favourite time of the day is when I’m with you_
> 
> UPDATE: THERE IS ART. I repeat, There is Actually AMAZING ART DONE BY EWIN AND YOU CAN FIND IT [HERE](https://twitter.com/14_7psia/status/1355866033031012355?s=20) I AM NOT JOKING I CRIED WHEN I FOUND OUT PLEASE SHOWER HER WITH LOVE
> 
> Yes it’s Suna’s birthday but I just had to write this from Osamu’s perspective, there was no other option. Also, I checked and the typical size of a Japanese apartment appears to be maybe 54sqm? Also, also. I made them husbands on impulse.
> 
> You guys need to cajole me into writing some angst the next time ok I have written too many soft things I need to diversify
> 
> Anyway just the idea of samu going ただいま (I’m home) and suna going おかえり (Welcome back) (or vice-versa) is making me weak. I don't know if you can see it from the fic, but there's a bit of Kita's influence to be found in them.
> 
> yell with me @yuzubalm on twitter or in the comments section. Love you.


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